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“Will you leash me, master?” Elarra asked, smiling.
Despite her smile, it was a serious question, and Elarra watched Master Tilborn consider it.
Tilborn Carrotmaster was a respectable halfling of the Furfoot Counties. His Elarra wore the blouse and skirt of a respectable halfling woman, but her green skin and long ears marked her as a goblin-wench. That meant she wore sandals, which the furry-footed halflings never did. She also wore a slave collar, for the only goblins allowed in the Furfoot counties were goblin slavegirls.
Now, however, they weren’t in the Furfoot Countries. Master Tilborn had brought a wainload of superior casks and barrels (suitable for enchantment) to the Ovalmere Faire, and the Ovalmere Faire was in the Principality of Pondor, on the far side of the Fatram River. If Elarra was going to run away, this was the place to do it. Not that she had any plans to do so. On those rare occasions when slaves did run away, it was almost always to find a better master. Slaves were immune to demon-magic, and demons loved the idea of catching former slaves who were once again vulnerable to them.
Still, the proprieties had to be observed. Master Tilborn frequently put Elarra into chains and restraints, both because it was expected and because it amused him. Elarra would be disappointed if he didn’t do so here as well.
At last Master Tilborn said, “Yes I will, but first…” He pulled a belled anklet from his satchel and handed it over. “Right ankle, please,” he commanded, and Elarra obediently bent to lock it on. “Wrists, please,” he commanded after receiving the anklet-key back, and Elarra extended her arms. Master Tilborn locked on the wrist-leash: A pair of close-linked fetters with a longer chain to act as a lead. “There!” Master Tilborn said.
They had already sent their draft ponies to one of the Faire’s overpriced pastures. Now they left their wain and entered the fairground proper.
Elarra looked around as Master Tilborn led her by the wrist-leash. This was her first visit to Ovalmere Fair. A good third of the people she saw were halflings, both visitors from the Furfoot Counties and residents of Pondor. The rest were a mix of elves, dark-elves, dwarves, and goblins. Some of the women wore slave collars much like Elarra’s own. Not many, but still more than back home in the Furfoot village of Broadstump.
One dwarf-woman wore a scarf around her neck, despite the warm weather. That was to keep her from being mistaken for a slavegirl, despite her plain, worn dress. Slavegirls didn’t hide their collars. Doing so was contrary to the Rules set out by Master Dee, the Golden One who acted as the deity of masters and their slavegirls. That made covering an absent slave collar a more ostentatious sign of a free dwarf than a bare neck would have been.
After that, Elarra made a game of spotting the different slavegirls: Here was a dwarf-woman with a collar, and there a collared dark-elf. A halfling slavegirl, an elf-maid, a glimpse of another goblin-wench, and another collared halfling woman.
Then there was the pig.
The pig looked around in a confused sort of way, with a crowd eyeing it warily in return. That was unusual enough; no one should have set a pig loose here. But this pig was apple-red and wore green breeches, a yellow waistcoat, and a shirt with ruffled cuffs, with none of the clothing fitting properly.
Master Tilborn stopped and took a shorter grip on Elarra’s wrist-leash. The crowd started to babble.
“That’s Mr. Irman Muddle!”
“What happened to him?”
“Maybe something he ate?”
“How will he change back?”
“Someone is cursing the foot and drink here? That’s not right!”
A loud and authoritative voice called, “Make way, please.”
Elarra looked over past Master Tilborn – and up. The speaker was a human, gray-bearded and dark eyed. A spellmaster of course.
Humans were rare in the world, Elarra knew. They all came from Somewhere Else, and they all were spellmasters of one sort or another – sorcerers, wizards, witches, adepts, or something even more arcane and unusual. Elarra guessed ‘wizard’ for this one, despite his lacking a staff. He had that feel, somehow.
The wizard (if he was a wizard) waved both hands and hummed. A glow appeared around the pig. “Ah!” the wizard said. “The good news is that it’s a day spell, although I’ll be blessed if I can tell where it came from.” A panpipe appeared in his hands, and he played an eerie tune. To Elarra, it sounded like a crowbar made of music. The pig shivered, stood, and transformed into a halfling whose clothes now fitted.
“Ah… Ah…” the halfling said, looking wildly around him.
“Welcome back, Mr. Irman Muddle,” the wizard said. His panpipe vanished.
“Ah… Yes. Thank you Maestro Lokman.” Mr. Muddle made a clumsy bow. “Thank you. I think I should go lie down now. Thank you.”
“A lie-down would be a good idea, if you’re feeling shaky,” Maestro Lokman said.
“Yes. Shaky. Don’t want to eat or drink just now. Extraordinary! Never thought I’d say that! But it was that mild ale and seed-cake at the Greenhorse tent. The Pondor one, not the Furfoot one. It made me feel full, and then, and then… Thank you, Maestro Lokman,” Mr. Muddle bowed again. “I’ll go have a lie-down.”
Mr. Muddle stumbled off and the crowd dispersed. Master Tilborn stayed, lengthening his grip on Elarra’s wrist-leash again, but not releasing her.
“Maestro Lokman.” Master Tilborn sketched a bow.
“Mr. Carrotmaster,” the wizard returned.
“Allow me to show off Elarra Onga’s-Daughter. I purchased her at Cheetpinkiz Mountain, and I’ve been pleased with her ever since. Elarra, this is Maestro Lokman, the wizard-bard I’ve made those casks and barrels for.”
Elarra made a chained-curtsy, keeping her ankles close together as if they were hobbled. Master Tilborn had spoken of the wizard-bard before without naming him. That was more a goblin custom than a halfling one, but Master Tilborn had been a traveled halfling and still followed that custom.
Maestro Lokman nodded in return, and made an arcane gesture that set Elarra’s belled anklet ringing. When Elarra looked up, she saw him smiling gently with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ve brought most of the barrels you’ve wanted,” Master Tilborn told the Maestro. “As I wrote in my last letter, the tun will take another month, and you may need to come and pick it up yourself.”
“We can discuss that over a mug of ale,” Maestro Lokman answered. “I need to sample what Goodsir Greenhorse has done with his mild ale, in any event, and if you’re feeling daring, you can join me. I think we can avoid a second be-pigging while I puzzle out the riddle of the first one.”
They entered the tavern tent belonging to the Greenhorse Inn – the one in Pondor, owned by the Greenhorse goblin family. Maestro Lokman nodded to the goblin barkeep and again to the elf wearing the braid and medallion of a Faire-magistrate. “Goodsir Greenhorse. Tallsir Maisel.” They had no trouble finding a table. The only others in the tent were a pair of goblin barmaids. Word of Mr. Muddle’s be-pigging had spread quickly.
One of the goblin barmaids brought them three mugs of mild ale and a plate of salty seed-cakes. She took Elarra’s collar in stride while giving Maestro Lokman a smile that was both nervous and hopeful. Elarra admitted that she might be nervous too, if Master Tilborn hadn’t been so obviously well-acquainted with the wizard-bard. Even when sitting down, Maestro Lokman was taller than the barmaid.
Maestro Lokman picked up his mug and hummed a ditty. He then repeated the performance with one of the salty seed-cakes. Shaking his head, he gestured, and a lyre appeared in his hand. After playing seven notes, he shook his head again. The lyre vanished.
“Drink up,” he said, and did so himself. Then he spoke in a loud voice, pitched to be heard by everyone in the tent and those just outside it. “Drink up! There is no curse here, nor any special blessing. Just well-made ale and seed-cake. Whatever it was that be-pigged Mr. Muddle has departed.” He drained his mug. The tavern-tent began to refill, and the goblin barmaid brought him another mug of the Greenhorse mild ale.
Elarra drank with both hands. Master Tilborn had removed the leash-chain while keeping her wrists fettered. When Elarra set down her emptied mug, Master Tilborn gave her a considering look before handing her one of the six coin-purses he’d prepared that morning.
“Instead of making you sit here to listen to Lokman and me haggle, I’m going to set you to work,” Master Tilborn said. “Look for things we might want for the home-burrow, and be sure to tell everyone who asks who you belong to.” He grinned. “That will make you easy to track down, if you try to run.”
Maestro Lokman snorted amusement. Elarra returned Master Tilborn’s grin. As if she would try to run! But it was nice that Master Tilborn cared.
“As you wish, master,” Elarra said. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. I almost forgot,” Master Tilborn said. “I particularly want you to find a satchel-purse for yourself. Look for one with iron or bronze rings attaching the strap. Also…” He clipped a lock-loop to Elarra’s collar and attached a short chain of three bells, fastening them in place with the same key as her ankle-bells. “There! Now you’re even more musical.”
Elarra giggled. Lifting her chin, she displayed her slave collar and silently begged a kiss from her master before departing.
=O+O+O=
Elarra was glad of both the presence of her sandals and the absence of any ankle chain. Being barefoot and hobbled had its place, but the Faire wasn’t that place. It was bigger than Elarra had expected and would take a lot of walking. In any case, the fetters on her wrists, and the slave-bells on her collar and ankle, were enough to remind her that she belonged to Master Tilborn. The satchel-purses offered by the first few leather workers Elarra found were either too small, too large and costly, or lacking the metal rings that Master Tilborn wanted. Elarra decided to shop for other things for a time, and return to the row of leather workers later. A vendor with a small oven-on-wheels was selling faire-cakes, and she considered buying one. Later, maybe.
Here was an interesting banner: A stylized perfume bottle reading ‘Madame Lini Auryril.’ It was an elf-woman name that Elarra remembered hearing. Master Tilborn had mentioned… No, Myrtle Greenbluff had mentioned it when she had asked Master Tilborn to purchase a dram of Madame Lini’s Aeren Belle perfume for her.
A dwarf was also looking at the banner. He turned to Elarra and said, “I’m afraid Madame Lini won’t be seeing you. She received an omen against seeing any slavegirls at this year’s Faire.” He looked her up and down, appraising her, before sweeping his hat off in a bow. “Reival son of Rugen, at your service. Gammon Reival,” he added helpfully, “if you’re a halfling’s property.”
Elarra returned a chained-curtsy of sorts. The cuffs forced her to keep her wrists together, and to keep her balance she had to move her feet further apart than was proper. The bells on her ankle and collar rang.
“Elarra Onga’s-Daughter,” she said, “at your service and your family’s, Gammon Reival. Yes, I do belong to Master Tilborn – to Mr. Tilborn Carrotmaster, I should say.”
“The halfling cooper? Well met, then,” Gammon Reival replied.
They parted ways, and Elarra drifted on to where the ironmongers had set up. She stopped to look over a display of pots and pans. Next to it, a sign proclaimed that dwarven wire-nails could be purchased here. She turned into an alley where more leather workers had set up booths. None of them had satchel-purses on display.
The scent of wood smoke drew Elarra’s attention. She relaxed on seeing that it was another vendor of faire-cakes, rather than an emergency. Gammon Reival was buying one, and Elarra started forward with the same idea.
Gammon Reival bit into his cake, chewed, and swallowed. Then he changed. His beard thickened into a wattle. A feathered tail grew out of his backside. The now-half-rooster dwarf strutted about, lifted his face to the sky, and crowed.
“Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do! Damnation! Cock-a-doodle-do!”
Elarra stared. So did everyone else.
An accented male voice spoke in Elarra’s ear. “What be his name?” The speaker was a goblin, dressed in Northwest Isles clothing that matched his accent.
“Gammon Reival, sir,” Elarra answered. “Reival son of Rugen, that is.”
“Ah.” The male goblin gave Elarra a quick nod of thanks before stepping forward. “Reival son of Rugen!” he shouted, pointing at the rooster-dwarf. “By your name! Be back to what you are!”
There wasn’t any magic in his tone, just authority, and for a moment nothing happened. Then the rooster-tail shrank and vanished, and the wattle reverted back to a proper dwarf-beard. “Damnation,” Gammon Reival whispered. He looked at the remaining bit of faire-cake he held and tossed it aside. “I need a drink.” Then he raised his voice. “Does anyone want to buy a drink for a poor spell-battered dwarf?”
That got the crowd to disperse. Gammon Reival stepped over and bowed to the male goblin. “Reival son of Rugen, at your service! Even if introductions are redundant now.”
“Greegek Etru’s son, at your service and your family’s. And…” He looked past Elarra and waved. A halfling woman trotted up. “Kiss,” Goodsir Greegek commanded her, and she smiled and complied. She had the dark brown hair and bright brown eyes common to halflings, and she wore a slave collar similar to Elarra’s own, along with leather wrist-cuffs tethered together.
“This be my wench,” Goodsir Greegek said. “April, sold by the Poundbaker family.”
April made a chained-curtsy, and eyed Elarra with curiosity. Elarra hurriedly made her own chained-curtsy to Goodsir Greegek, introducing herself and naming her own master.
Gammon Reival said to the other three, “I should buy you drinks.”
“I thank you,” Goodsir Greeget said. “And you must let me buy you one.”
=O+O+O=
The Faire had a dozen or more tavern-tents, and the one nearest the leather-workers featured beer rather than ale. As they waited for their beer, Goodsir Greegek said, “No, not a magic spell. Just loud words. Day spells can be broken, sometimes, by loud words.”“If you know the name of the victim,” April added. “Or the name of the demon, if it’s a demon casting the day spell.”
The beer arrived. Gammon Reival drank appreciatively. “Knowing the demon’s name doesn’t help much, if you’re the victim of the spell,” he said.
“And that does be a problem,” Goodsir Greegek agreed. “We do what we can.”
Gammon Reival finished his tankard and stood, sketching a bow. “Thank you again, very much. I am at your service. And beg pardon, I need to be elsewhere now.”
As the dwarf left the tent, Master Tilborn and Maestro Lokman entered. Elarra stood and waved, and the two came over. Goodsir Greegek and April stood as well, exchanging introductions and news.
“We are mirrors, it seems,” Master Tilborn observed.
“So we are,” Goodsir Greegek said. “You be the craftmaster cooper, as well as master-owner of this fine wench?” he asked, tilting his head toward Elarra. “Then I know a man – truth, three men – who could use good whiskey barrels.” He looked up at Maestro Lokman. “And maybe an enchantment of excellence, as well, on their whiskey. We could talk, over a good supper.”
Master Tilborn nodded, but Maestro Lokman shook his head. “I must leave the Faire now,” the wizard-bard said. “In fact, I ought to have left an hour ago. Unfortunately, managing that now is beyond any day spell. Speaking of which, you said you broke the day spell with loud words and a true name?”
“Aye.” Goodsir Greegek nodded. “That I did. I got lucky.”
“It sounds like you made your own luck,” Maestro Lokman said. “It was certainly worth a try, because sometimes it does work.” Maestro Lokman made a pinching gesture. “Now while I don’t know anything, I suspect there’s an imp loose. It has that demon feel to it. If so, you should keep using those loud words. When it comes to imp magic, that works more often than not. Imps and other demons are particularly vulnerable to the mundane, and it’s better yet if you can learn the demon’s true name. You can even banish demons by shouting their true names at them, if you manage to catch them with their magic over-extended.”
“Like the tale of Lucky Paul and the Demoness, Maestro?” Elarra asked.
“Just like that,” Maestro Lokman said. “Except Lucky Paul was lucky, lucky that the demoness didn’t turn him into a stone toad before he finished saying her full name. That’s why catching them with their magic over-extended is important.” He grinned. “Easier said than done, I know. And now I really must depart. Good eve, my goodsirs and good-wenches.” He left the tent, ducking at the exit due to his human-tall height.
=O+O+O=
Before going down to supper, Master Tilborn removed Elarra’s slave bells and unlocked her wrists. In exchange, he shackled her in a short-chained ankle hobble. For good measure, since they were eating at the inn, he made her go barefoot, as well. When they joined Goodsir Greegek, Elarra saw that April was likewise restrained, with her wrists free of the leather cuffs and her ankles hobbled with metal shackles. The two slavegirls exchanged a look; their masters were not going to reveal whether their matched hobbling was a matter of prearrangement or coincidence.
The supper itself was neither exceptionally bad nor exceptionally good. It helped, Elarra thought, that it was plain fare instead of anything fancy. Master Tilborn mentioned that the breakfasts here were better than the luncheons or suppers. He was the only one of the four who had previously visited the Faire.
Master Tilborn and Goodsir Greegek then started the bargaining dance over the kegs and barrels the goblin master wanted to purchase. For the most part, Elarra and April simply listened. Occasionally one or the other would say, “Yes, master, I think you’re right,” and after the third or fourth time Elarra noticed stifled amusement in response from both of the masters.
After the supper came the baths. The two masters were still haggling as they entered the men’s bath, and the two slavegirls were still hobbled as they entered the women’s side. There were pegs for clothing, there was soap and hot water, and there were tubs, each sized for one elf or dark-elf, two dwarves at a pinch, or two halflings or goblins as an easy fit. Elarra and April shared a tub, wearing only their ankle-hobbles and slave collars, and exchanged the secrets that they’d left unspoken during supper.
Elarra spoke of growing up under Cheetpinkiz Mountain, where an ancient magic caused daughters to outnumber sons. “We extra daughters are mostly sold off,” Elarra said, going on to explain about the custom of the tickle barrel, and how she and Master Tilborn plotted to have her sold to him after she’d been declared guilty of the ‘crime’ of not being able to find a husband. “It was the only real solution for us,” Elarra said. “He couldn’t stay under Cheetpinkiz Mountain, of course, and the only goblins allowed in the Furfoot Counties are goblin slavegirls.”
“I know,” April answered. “I grew up there.”
“Ah!” said Elarra, enlightened. “That explains your accent.”
April’s master spoke the dialect of the Northwest Island of Fard. April herself spoke a much lighter version, and now that Elarra knew to listen for it, she could detect signs of the Furfoot Counties accent underneath it. April’s speech was that of someone who wasn’t a native of Fard, but who had lived there for years.
“Most of the Poundbaker family is here in Pondor,” April said, “but there’s a branch in the Furfoot Counties, and that’s where I came from.” She sighed. “I didn’t get along very well with my sibs. Or with anyone, really. I was a tomboy, and everyone said I was a rapscallion too. They also said that I would run away and come to a bad end – and, well, here I am.”
“So did you come to a bad end?” Elarra asked with a hint of mischief.
April smirked. “Horrible.” Then more seriously, “I did have my share of misfortune before Master Greegek purchased me. I stuck it out, with my family, until I came of age. Then on the day after my thirty-third birthday I met an old woman. She looked like a human sorceress, and she offered to help me run away. But she was a she-demon, sent by the Lord of Misery. I was terrified when I finally figured that out. I wasn’t a slavegirl then, remember.”
Elarra nodded. Demons had powerful magic, and before becoming a slavegirl April would have been vulnerable to it.
“So I ran away with help from the she-demon, and then I ran away from the she-demon. I got as far as Bengate, and I was all ragged and penniless when I entered the town. A goblin street kid – heh, not much younger than I was then – tried to pick my pockets and failed because my purse was empty. So he told me to go to the Lazy Lamp Inn, either out of mischief or because he got paid for that. I never did find out which. Darksir Har-Verin was the dark elf owner, and Barthic son of Alrak was his dwarven friend, and they both were very friendly. Too obviously friendly. So when Gammon Barthic smiled at me through his beard and offered to buy me a goblet of wine, I said, ‘If you add a plate of bread and cheese, and leave the sleep-poppy out of the wine, I’ll sit quietly and let you shackle and collar me. It will be even less trouble for you than if you drugged me.’ I was tired and hungry by then as well as ragged and penniless, and I didn’t think I could keep dodging the Lord of Misery and his she-demons for much longer. Or the town watch, which was about the same thing. So I took the excessive friendliness of the two men as a sign from Master Dee. You understand, don’t you?”
Elarra nodded again, and April continued, “Darksir Har-Verin looked at me cross-eyed, but Gammon Barthic laughed and said he appreciated finding someone smart enough to see through his little tricks. So they collared and shackled me. I was set on the auction block, and sold, and sold again. My masters all thought I was too short, or too untrained, or too brown, or too something, until I ended up being shipped to Fard. The slave dealer thought my ‘exotic’ accent would bring a higher price in the Northwest Islands, you see. That’s where Master Greegek bought me at a blind beggar’s auction. And then he kept me.”
=O+O+O=
After the bath, Master Tilborn took Elarra back to their closet-sized inn room. Elarra had noticed how strangely silent it seemed, when they first arrived, and now she commented on it. “It’s a sound-proofing enchantment,” Master Tilborn explained as he unlocked Elarra’s hobbles. “A cheap enchantment that the landlord has to get renewed every year. Nice to have, though. The other guests won’t disturb us, and we won’t disturb them, even if we get noisy. Now shake the water out of these and oil them.”
“Yes, master.”
When the hobble-locks were oiled and set aside, Master Tilborn made Elarra remove her bath-towel and lie on the bed. He staked her out there, tying three limbs out of four. The ropes coiled around her left wrist, her right wrist, and her right ankle, tethering them to three of the four bedposts. Her untied left leg left her with a pleasantly frustrating illusion of partial freedom.
Elarra enjoyed this tie. It was simple and comfortable, and Master Tilborn knew how to make it interesting. Its familiarity felt good on the unfamiliar bed of the inn, and knowing that it amused Master Tilborn added spice to it.
Master Tilborn smiled down at Elarra. She shivered at the touch of his hands on her nude body. It was an exciting touch, not a cruel one. Never a cruel touch. Master Tilborn would not offend against Master Dee and His Rules any more than Elarra would.
Elarra tested the wrist-tethers, savoring her helplessness. They had fancier restraints back at the home-burrow, and when they returned home Master Tilborn would secure her with them. Tonight, however, was a time for a simple, familiar tie. And now, without saying a word, he was making her aware of the womanly greenness of her nude body.
He showed his usual skill in touching and stroking her, displaying the way he knew every inch of her green skin. He could make the brushing of her hair or a caress of her ear almost as good as a kiss. He could make her helpless and vulnerable in so many different ways, and then drive her wild with the tickle, or melt her with a foot rub. The latter was what he was doing now.
“Mmmm,” she purred as the foot-rub melted her.
“Like that, do you?” Master Tilborn asked.
“Mmmm. Yes master!”
Master Tilborn finished the foot-rub and slipped into bed beside her. His touches now made her pull hard at the tethers binding her wrists and her right ankle, and pleasant spikes of excitement ran through her as they refused to give way. He chuckled and took possession of her with his masculine hands, and his masculine feet, and his entire masculine body. He plundered her, loving and masterly and entirely confident. He made her feel completely feminine and delightedly helpless. He teased her collar to remind her that she was a slavegirl, and she was a happy slavegirl, yielding to her master. He stroked and stroked, and made her squirm and giggle and happily cry out. And squirm and cry out. And squirm and cry out.
Elarra was only half-aware of Master Tilborn untying her wrists. She heard him yawn, and felt him pull the blanket over them both. He had left the tether in place on her right ankle, and that was perfect. She clutched weakly at him, limp and blissful and exactly where she wanted to be.
=O+O+O=
As Master Tilborn had said, the inn did breakfasts better than suppers. After that better breakfast, he locked Elarra in the wrist leash again and led her out. Their first stop was the merchant-wagon of Madame Lini, with its perfume-bottle banner. “Master,” Elarra said, “I’ve been told that Madame Lini has had an omen against seeing slavegirls at the Faire this year. She won’t let me in.”
“I’ll leave you outside, then,” Master Tilborn said. He handed Elarra the end of the wrist-leash and started up the wagon’s steps. “Hmm.”
There was a notice tacked to the wagon’s door. ‘OPEN AT 10.’ They both looked toward the clock tower – one of the few permanent buildings of Ovalmere Faire – but the dial faced away from them.
Master Tilborn took up the wrist-leash again and started to lead Elarra past the wagon. Her ears twitched as they caught the sounds of movement. “Someone’s inside, master.”
Master Tilborn stopped to listen. “I’m not hearing anything, but your ears are better than mine.” He caressed one of those ears. “In any case, even if someone is inside, it’s not the same as being open for business.”
He led Elarra on to the other merchants. Half his stops were at stalls that Elarra had visited yesterday. At the ones that weren’t, he made purchases with arrangements to either pick up the goods later, or else to have them delivered to his wain. One exception was a length of chain, with an ankle fetter at one end and a padlock at the other. After a brief haggle over its price Master Tilborn locked it in a loop and took it with him.
As they shopped they heard gossip about yesterday’s transformations. In addition to Mr. Muddle’s be-pigging and Gammon Reival’s roostering, there’d been a dwarf woman who had changed into a sheep. Nothing of that sort had happened yet this morning, but more than one person said, “Mark my words: That imp will do another one before noon.”
Then word came of an elf transformed into a billy-goat.
“I told you so,” a goblin merchant said from behind her display of wooden spoons. “It’s an imp, putting curses on food and drink. What the mages call day-spells.”
Speculation turned to what the imp was disguising itself as. Everyone knew that imps normally disguised themselves as animals, or even as inanimate objects. They lacked the power to disguise themselves as ordinary people, the way other demons did.
Master Tilborn stopped at a stall Elarra had visited yesterday. She watched as he examined the sachel-purses, agreed that they were too big, and entered into a spirited negotiation with Mr. Timbo Tilejack, the halfling leather worker who had made them. Eventually Mr. Tilejack brought out a somewhat smaller satchel-purse, one with a brass ring attached at one end. Master Tilborn inspected it: Looking inside, turning it over, and testing the sturdiness of the attached ring. Another bout of haggling followed. Elarra picked up her cue from Master Tilborn and spoke critically of the tanning and stitching. Finally, the two halflings closed the deal. Master Tilborn handed over the agreed number of coins, and Mr. Tilejack handed over the satchel-purse.
“And now you’ll belong to it,” Master Tilborn told Elarra. He took the previously-purchased chain from where he had looped it over his shoulder, fastened the padlock end to the satchel-purse’s brass ring, and secured the fetter end around Elarra’s ankle. He then unlocked her wrists, putting the wrist leash into the satchel-purse. “Come along now, Elarra,” he said.
“Yes master.” Elarra picked up the satchel-purse and followed. It was rather like a ball and chain, she realized, only more practical. She could carry things in it, and it had a handle to be carried itself. It was more comfortable for walking about the Faire than a pair of hobbling shackles, while still being effective against any attempt she might make to run away. Not that she would, of course, but the proprieties had to be observed.
=O+O+O=
When the bell in the clock tower struck ten, they returned to the wagon of Madame Lini. Elarra waited at the foot of the steps as Master Tilborn entered Or rather, she started to wait there. Restlessness and curiosity overcame her, and she picked up her satchel-purse and circled around to the back of the wagon. Again she listened, and again she thought she heard someone inside. Which was odd, when she thought about it. Master Tilborn and Madame Lini should both be at the front of the wagon, not the rear. Elarra pressed an ear against the wooden end-panel. She could hear Master Tilborn and Madame Lini speaking, without being able to make out their words. Closer and fainter, she heard a cat mewing. Or was it a cat? Elarra was not the most frequently gagged of slavegirls, but she knew what gagged mewing sounded like. From the inside, at least. Was it a gagged woman? No, it had to be a cat.
Elarra circled back to the foot of the steps and set down the satchel-purse to wait. She told herself that she had an over-active imagination.
Mr. Muddle passed by and stopped to speak. “Good day, Goodwench Elarra.”
“And to you, Mr. Muddle.”
“I see your master has taken an interesting precaution,” the halfling said, looking down at Elarra’s satchel-purse.
“Yes he has, Mr. Muddle,” Elarra said. She went on to explain, “Master Tilborn is making a few purchases from Mistress Lini. Missus Myrtle back home wants a dram of the Aeren Belle perfume.”
Mr. Muddle nodded understanding. “Lini’s Aeren Belle perfume is very fine,” he said.
Elarra explained, “I’m waiting here because Mistress Lini received an omen against seeing any slavegirls at the Faire this year.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Mr. Muddle said. “She hadn’t mentioned it yesterday, when I made my own purchases from her. It must be a compelling omen for Lini to take it seriously. She usually doesn’t, you know. Take omens seriously, I mean. Perhaps you can see her after the Faire ends. Well, good day and good fortune to you and your Master Tilborn.” He sketched a bow.
Elarra responded with a chained-curtsy, keeping her ankles properly close together. “Good day and good fortune to you, Mr. Muddle.”
=O+O+O=
Master Tilborn came out of the wagon shortly afterwards, carrying a wrapped package that he tucked into Elarra’s satchel-purse. “These are glass bottles,” he told her with exaggerated gruffness, “Don’t you be going and breaking them, wench!”“Of course not, master,” Elarra answered cheerfully.
Master Tilborn laughed. “Haggling is thirsty work,” he said. “I’m going to have a half-pint now, and maybe a bite to eat. You can join me, or you can spend my money on a few pretties for yourself.”
“Your collared wench would be grateful if she could join you,” Elarra told him with exaggerated humility.
Master Tilborn laughed again and caressed Elarra’s ear. “Come along then,” he told her.
“Yes master.” Elarra picked up her satchel-purse and followed, the chain leading to her ankle clinking faintly as she walked.
The tavern-tent closest to Madame Lini’s wagon belonged to the Green Horse Inn. Not the inn owned by the Greenhorse goblins of Pondor, but the inn owned by the Cutfurrow family of halflings, just across the river in the Furfoot Counties. As they entered, Master Tilborn waved at Missus Hazel Cutfurrow and nodded Elarra to a small table. He then picked up two half-pints at the bar rather than waiting for a barmaid. He placed the mugs on the table, but before he could sit down himself Elarra saw a most peculiar expression pass over his face.
“Elarra,” Master Tilborn croaked. “I’m turning green. Look at my hands!”
Elarra’s eyes went wide. She opened her mouth and found that she had nothing to say. Master Tilborn’s hands were turning green, and so was his face.
“I’m turning into a frog,” Master Tilborn croaked. “I’m turning into a frog!”
Elarra studied her master’s face. It was sweating and green. Not the apple-green of her own goblin skin, but rather the shiny, slimy green of a tree frog. The shape of his face, however, remained unchanged.
“You’re not turning into a frog, master!” Elarra said.
“I’ve turned green,” Master Tilborn croaked.
Elarra couldn’t deny it. Her Master Tilborn was completely green, now. She stood and felt the tug of her ankle-cuff as she tried to step around the table. She kicked, pulling the satchel-purse closer.
“I need a princess,” Master Tilborn said. “I’ve turned into a frog!”
Elarra wasn’t a princess, but she could try anyway. She flung her arms around her master, and kissed him. He kissed her back, his arms pressing her close to him.
When Master Tilborn let her go, Elarra saw that his face was back to its normal color. But he wanted to make sure, and Elarra cheerfully obeyed his demand for another kiss. When that one ended, Master Tilborn gave her a shaky grin. “Are you my princess?”
“If you wish it, master,” Elarra said. Her own smile felt shaky as well. Shaky and relieved.
They sat down. Master Tilborn looked drained to Elarra’s eye. His hands shook, and he had to use both of them as he drank from his mug.
“Drink up, Elarra.” Master Tilborn nodded at her mug. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Elarra felt doubtful, but she obeyed, taking a swallow of the mild ale.
Master Tilborn gave her another grin, one that looked slightly less shaky. “It wasn’t the ale,” he said. “It’s not the food or drink. It’s a trick.”
“Master?”
“Didn’t you notice, Elarra?” Master Tilborn asked. “I turned green before I drank anything. The imp-spells must all have been cast with a delay, so that people will think that eating or drinking something caused the changes.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, master!” Elarra said. She sat back to consider what it might mean.
“Drink up, Elarra,” Master Tilborn repeated. He was still grinning at her. “Are you feeling disobedient? Making plans to disguise yourself as a free goblin and run away?”
Under her master’s teasing, Elarra felt her face and ears warm. She drained her mug, pointedly obedient. Master Tilborn continued to grin at her. He was no longer green, not even a little bit, but… “Are you all right, master?” Elarra asked.
“Eh?” Master Tilborn’s grin faded. “Tired. Washed out. Mr. Irman Muddle wanted a lie-down after his experience. Maestro Lokman said that was a good idea. It might be a good idea for me, too. Or I might just stay here a while, drinking mild ale and eating seed-cake and skewered mushrooms. If you’re not hungry yet, I can set you to finish the shopping by yourself.” He set a purse of coins on the small table. “I have a list.” A scrap of paper was placed beside the purse.
“I’m not hungry yet, master,” Elarra said, “but I would like to finish my ale. May I do so master?”
Master Tilborn’s grin returned. “Of course, my princess-slavegirl. You may even have another mug, if you wish. When you finish, you can go out and be good. Spend what you need to, and a little bit on yourself as well.”
“Yes master,” Elarra said. “Thank you.”
=O+O+O=
Outside the tavern tent, Elarra found a quiet corner and peeked into the purse of coins Master Tilborn had given her. Her eyes widened, and after a moment’s thought she tucked the coins deep in the satchel-purse chained to her ankle. Her master’s list she kept in her hand. Now she could go shopping. After purchasing the first few items from various faire-merchants, Elarra decided to obey her master’s command to buy something for herself. She sought out a used-clothing dealer and bought a faded yellow linen scarf. Smiling at the dealer’s jokes about how she might use it to hide her collar, Elarra ostentatiously tucked it into her satchel-purse.
Elarra then headed for a second destination not on her master’s list. This brought her past the back of Madame Lini’s wagon. On an impulse, she pressed her ear against the wood once again and heard… nothing. But that meant nothing. Elarra knew better than most that a bound captive could not struggle all the time. She considered rapping the wood with her knuckles and decided against it. Instead, she opened her satchel-purse and looked down at the linen scarf inside.
Slavegirls didn’t hide their collars. Doing so was against The Rules. Poor free women could hide their non-existent collars to mark themselves as free, and that worked because a slavegirl would not do so. The used-clothing dealer could joke about Elarra hiding her collar because the idea was so outrageous; no one would seriously think that Elarra would do so.
There were exceptions, of course. Last winter Master Tilborn had ordered Elarra to wear a collar-covering scarf against the cold and blustery weather. The Rules made way for practical considerations when necessary. But in this fine weather, a scarf could only be worn to hide a non-existent collar and mark the wearer as not being a slavegirl.
If Elarra hid her collar and got caught, it would be humiliating for her – and even more humiliating and embarrassing for Master Tilborn. If she didn’t get caught – if her plan worked – she would still have to confess afterwards and beg forgiveness. She felt certain that Master Tilborn would forgive her, calling it a necessary exception to The Rules, and if he forgave her, others would do so as well. But only if her plan worked.
It would have to work; it was the only plan Elarra had.
Elarra glanced quickly around to make sure no one was watching. Equally quickly, she wrapped the scarf around her neck, hiding her collar. She told herself to stop feeling conspicuous. Looking conspicuous and embarrassed could give her away. And then her plan would fail. Picking up her satchel-purse, she put a determined expression on her face and marched around to the front of the wagon. Up the three steps. Through the door.
Inside, standing behind a narrow counter, Elarra saw a female thing wearing elf-woman clothing. Magic reached out from her and tried to make Elarra see an elf-woman. But Elarra was still a goblin slavegirl, with her master’s fetter locked on her left ankle, chaining her to the satchel-purse. And so Elarra could plainly see that the female behind the counter was not an elf. Her skin was wrong. Her ears and eyes and face were wrong. Her hair was completely absent, making it worse than wrong. Instead of hair, her head sprouted horns and tentacles.
The demoness glanced at Elarra’s scarf-wrapped throat. “And how may I help you, goodlady…?” Her voice was feminine, in its own way, while being just as not-elf as the rest of her.
Elarra pulled her scarf away, revealing her slave collar. That felt good. She wanted to sigh with relief, but she had to act quickly. “I am Elarra, a goblin slavegirl belonging to Master Tilborn Carrotmaster. Who are you, and where is Madame Lini Auryril?”
“Slavegirl,” the demoness hissed. “Precious Lini is here, and quite secure.” Her clawed hands worked, drawing and shaping power.
Demon-magic wouldn’t work on slavegirls, but there were ways around that. If the spell set the wagon on fire, Elarra would be burned too. It wouldn’t bother the demoness, though. Demons were fireproof.
“What is your name?” Elarra asked. She then remembered that she needed to be loud. She told herself that this… this hag had put a curse on Master Tilborn. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” she shouted.
The demoness answered, “I am Nalroos-Erthaga.” She paused, looking startled at her own words. The flames around her raised hands fizzled out, filling the wagon with a stink.
“Nalroos-“ Elarra started to say, and was interrupted by another demon-spell, one intended to set Elarra’s skirt on fire. That spell failed too. Elarra’s skirt and blouse looked like something a respectable halfling woman might wear (if it weren’t being worn by a green-skinned goblin), but in truth it was a slavegirl’s clothing. Master Tilborn had bought the cloth for Elarra, Myrtle Greenbluff and Elarra’s other halfling women-friends had helped measure it for her, and Elarra had sewn it herself.
Elarra backed away, fumbling at the door latch behind her. Nalroos-Erthaga sprang over the counter, and the two of them fell down the steps. It became a cat-fight, and after getting in one or two good grabs Elarra began to lose. The demoness didn’t have supernatural strength, but she did have the size and strength of an elf-woman, while Elarra had only the lesser size and strength of a goblin-maid.
“Nalroos-Erthaga…” Elarra gasped as she twisted desperately. “Nalroos-Erthaga, I– Ouch!” she cried as the demoness pulled her hair and scratched her cheek.
“Foolish slavegirl,” the demoness hissed. “You cannot command.” Hiss. “I cannot enspell you… but you cannot command!”
“Nalroos-Erthaga…” Elarra tried again. She was desperate and didn’t know what else to try.
Master Tilborn’s voice spoke. “Nalroos-Erthaga! Unhand my slavegirl Elarra!”
The demoness pushed Elarra away, scrambling to stand up. Elarra clutched her satchel-purse and looked up from the ground at Master Tilborn. He wasn’t looking at her. He was glaring at Nalroos-Erthaga.
He pointed a finger. “Go away!” Master Tilborn said.
Nalroos-Erthaga glared back at him, her hands working to gather a spell. Elarra felt her heart pound. What if Master Tilborn didn’t speak enough?
“Werop-iaj…” Nalroos-Erthaga started to say.
But Master Tilborn did speak quickly enough. “Nalroos-Erthaga!” he interrupted her. “Go back to the place you came from! GO AWAY!” The last two word echoed, go away, go away, go away as the demoness faded into nothingness.
Or at least that’s what it looked like. Elarra knew that spellmasters had long and complicated explanations for what really happened when a demon was summoned or dismissed. The important part here, however, was that Nalroos-Erthaga was gone, and could be expected to stay gone.
Elarra stood, helped up by Master Tilborn. The linen scarf had become wrapped around her ankle-chain. Master Tilborn pulled it loose and used it to tie her wrists behind her.
“Have you been naughty, Elarra?” Master Tilborn asked softly.
“Maybe a little naughty, master,” Elarra answered in the same low tone.
Master Tilborn started to give Elarra’s ears his usual caress and switched to stroking her hair, instead. Elarra’s cheek was scratched, her ears had been twisted and now felt bruised, and her scalp hurt from the hair-pulling. Still Nalroos-Erthaga hadn’t had it all her own way. Elarra remembered grabbing a horn with one hand – which hadn’t done much good – and squeezing a pair of tentacles with the other – which had produced a satisfactory howl.
“You need witch-water,” Master Tilborn said. “I’ll try to get you some.”
“Yes master please,” Elarra said. “Thank you, master!”
Witch-water wasn’t magical, exactly, but it wasn’t completely mundane, either. It was something in-between, and it would feel good on her aches and scratches. She could almost smell it now.
Elarra could smell it now. An elf-woman had come out of the wagon, escorted by Mr. Muddle in his prosperous halfling’s clothing, and by Tallsir Maisel with his braid and medallion of a Faire-magistrate. The elf-woman held an open bottle of witch-water and was still dabbling it onto the rope-marks on her wrists and the gag-marks on her face.
“Mr. Tilborn Carrotmaster.” The elf-woman handed him a second bottle of witch-water from her skirt-pocket. “This is for your Elarra, with my thanks.”
“Madame Lini Auryril.” Master Tilborn accepted the bottle with a slight bow. “I thank you in return – and so will my Elarra, once she recovers.”
Elarra made an abbreviated dip with her wrists bound behind her, and then stood still to let Master Tilborn apply the witch-water to her scratches and aches. It felt just as good as Elarra had anticipated.
Madame Lini Auryril and Tallsir Maisel of Dirtharnith waited patiently for Elarra’s treatment to finish. Elarra was then properly presented to the two elves. She took a breath and made her chained-curtsy twice – the extra-formal version, imposed on her by her wrists being tied behind her. She managed it without stumbling, and found everyone looking at her with approval. Her ears grew warm; somehow that felt more embarrassing than if she had stumbled.
“And now,” Tallsir Maisel said, “We should find a better venue to continue this discussion.”
=O+O+O=
In the Green Horse tavern-tent (the halfling one) Master Tilborn led the way to the largest table. Elarra followed half a step behind. Master Tilborn carried the satchel-purse, and its chain acted as a sort of ankle-leash for Elarra. Tallsir Maisel, bringing up the rear, nodded approval. He glanced at Elarra before setting Mr. Muddle to take notes. Elarra tugged discreetly at the scarf binding her wrists; if it weren’t for that tie, she was sure she would have been given the note-taking task.
Missus Cutfurrow smiled politely at the elven Faire-magistrate and his party, and then more broadly at the crowd of curious onlookers following behind. She took her place behind the bar and set her halfling barmaids hurrying about, serving ale, seed-cake, and skewered mushrooms, along with the occasional goblet of wine.
At the big table, Madame Lini told her story first. The demoness had simply stepped out into the road, just short of the Faire-grounds. “She then used her spells… promiscuously,” Madame Lini said. “That’s the only word for it. Her first spell froze me in place before I could take a breath, and a half dozen followed on its heels. I was bound and gagged, thrust into the back of my wagon, and looking at my mirrored appearance less than a minute later. She said she had to keep me in order to maintain her mirror of my appearance and voice while she stayed at the Faire. I don’t know if that was just a villain-boast or a necessary part of the mirror-spell.
“In any case, she began the curses once we arrived. She cast two on me yesterday, just to be cruel, and a third one this morning, in addition to the curses she put on my customers. She bragged about being sent, rather than summoned, and that was a villain-boast. She was extraordinarily proud about being chosen for that sending. I didn’t learn her name, of course, until Goodwench Elarra here winkled it out of her.” Madame Lini raised her wine goblet in salute and drank. Elarra nodded properly and tugged, again, at the scarf binding her wrists. Master Tilborn held the mug for her to drink a swallow of ale.
“By my count she put ten curses on my customers,” Madame Lini went on. “Yesterday she cast seven curses, and this morning she cast three more. The curse directed at Mr. Carrotmaster, here, was the second of those three.”
“So thirteen curses total, including those directed at you,” Tallsir Maisel said. He and Madame Lini went on into the details, with a pair of questions directed to Master Tilborn and Elarra about the frog-curse. Mr. Muddle jotted down notes. Master Tilborn drank ale, held a mug for Elarra to drink, and fed her a piece of seed-cake.
After that came Elarra’s turn to tell her story. She spoke of hearing noises in the wagon, of her suspicions, and of marching up the steps and into the wagon.
The two elves nodded.
“Of course demon-magic doesn’t work against slavegirls,” Tallsir Maisel said. “That’s why the mirror-spell didn’t work; it couldn’t make Elarra see Lini’s mirrored appearance, and so Elarra saw Nalroos-Erthaga’s true form instead.”
“It also explains the ridiculous story about ‘my’ not wanting to see any slavegirls, here at the Faire,” Madame Lini said. “I’m always glad to take money from a slavegirl when her master sends her to me to buy my wares.”
“Yes,” Tallsir Maisel agreed. He turned to Elarra. “As for your disobedience toward the false Madame Lini’s order, I will leave any chastisement to your master.”
“What disobedience?” Madame Lini asked brightly.
“What disobedience?” Master Tilborn echoed, giving Elarra’s ear a very soft caress.
A smile flickered over Tallsir Maisel’s face. “Indeed. Please continue,” he ordered Elarra.
Elarra couldn’t bring herself to confess about the scarf around her neck, so instead she said, “I trusted to luck, and luck was with me. The demon didn’t notice at first that I was a slavegirl.” That was true, if not the whole truth. She glanced around to see the reactions to her omission, holding her breath.
Master Tilborn managed the feat of giving her a reassuring look while keeping a bland expression on his face. Mr. Muddle had his head down, writing. Madame Lini and Tallsir Maisel gave her sharp glances of the sort that only an elf (or possibly a dark-elf) could give.
Then Tallsir Maisel waved his hand in a little forgiving gesture. Elarra drew in a breath and continued, “As Mistress Lini put it, I was able to ‘winkle out’ Nalroos-Erthaga’s name. That surprised her, and I think it kept her from burning down Mistress Lini’s wagon. Then she surprised me by pouncing before I was able to do anything with her name. We fought, and I was losing that fight. I would have lost if Master Tilborn hadn’t rescued me.”
Master Tilborn’s story came last and shortest. After Elarra’s kiss had lifted the frog-curse, he had only needed a second mug of ale and a second helping of skewered mushrooms to recover. He’d gone out to search for Elarra and had found her just as she fell down the steps of Mistress Lini’s wagon. The mirror-spell had cracked from Elarra speaking Nalroos-Erthaga’s name, and that was how he could see who Elarra was fighting and what he had to do about it.
Tallsir Maisel thanked everyone and left with Mr. Muddle and his notes. Mistress Lini gave her thanks to Elarra and Master Tilborn and followed.
Master Tilborn fed Elarra another piece of seed-cake and held the mug again for her to drink. Setting the mug down, he whispered in her ear.
“I told you to buy a scarf. I intended to tie you with it. And now I have.”
“Master?” Elarra asked, unsure of what he meant.
“You said that you were lucky when you entered Madame Lini’s wagon. If any of that luck was due to your ‘lucky scarf,’ you will not speak about it. Not until we get back home, and then not to anyone but me.”
“I understand, master.” Elarra paused, and a saucy glint came into her eyes. “Will you put me to the tickle, master?” she asked.
“Yes,” Master Tilborn answered. “Yes I will. And when you’ve confessed, I will…” He leaned close and whispered his intentions into her ear.
Elarra shivered with happy anticipation at the pleasures Master Tilborn intended to ‘punish’ her with.
“I look forward to my punishment, master,” Elarra said.
“I thought you might,” Master Tilborn said. He fingered Elarra’s collar, making her aware of it. “But until then, after your adventures here at the Faire, you need to be especially obedient for a time.”
“Yes, master.”
“Now kiss me, Elarra.”
Elarra obeyed. Master Tilborn embraced her as she kissed, and Elarra felt the familiar, amusing frustration of not being able to embrace him in return. Not with her wrists tied behind her with her lucky scarf.
(End)